---
Two years had passed since Lei Wuchen first crossed the gates of the Lei manor.
Every morning, before the sun even broke the horizon, he was already on his feet. Running barefoot across the stone courtyard, breathless, sweating — but never stopping.
Not because anyone asked him to.
But because he knew he had to.
No one treated him as an equal.
Among the cousins, he was "the bastard."
Among the servants, "the exile's boy."
Among the teachers, "the extra student."
But within the echoes of the ancestral hall, among jade walls and shadowy corridors, there was one name he made sure to repeat every time they called him in contempt:
"My name is Lei Wuchen."
---
His days were strictly regimented. The duke had said there would be no favoritism — and he had kept his word.
But that didn't mean neglect.
He received the same tutors as the noble sons: martial philosophy, strategy, history, meditation, calligraphy, and the fundamentals of spiritual cultivation.
And every afternoon, the physical training was brutal: running, weights, basic combat with spears and wooden staffs. Always supervised. Always evaluated.
But never praised.
"Good enough," said one teacher when Wuchen landed a difficult strike.
"Avoid injury," muttered another, watching his fists bleed raw.
What hurt most, though, was the look in the eyes of the other boys in the family.
Lei Zhong, his older cousin, was the worst of them. Arrogant, direct heir to the duke's martial lineage. At twelve years old, he had already awakened his martial soul — a gleaming axe said to be a direct inheritance of the tyrant bloodline.
One day, at the end of a training session, Zhong tossed a stone at Wuchen's feet.
"Street dog. Why do you even try? You don't even have a martial soul."
Wuchen stared back, swallowing his pride.
"Because I will have one. And when I do… you'll remember me."
Zhong laughed. The others laughed with him.
But one of the instructors watching from afar did not laugh.
He simply crossed his arms and gave a slight nod — unseen by anyone.
---
One morning, in a quiet room of polished jade, Master Yue began the lesson on spiritual foundations.
"Lei Wuchen. Answer me: how many levels are there in spiritual cultivation?"
Wuchen hesitated, and the master raised a hand and spoke:
"Better than guessing… is learning once and for all."
He stood and walked to the stone board.
"The world of Douluo revolves around Martial Spirits, granted during the Spiritual Awakening. They can be animals, weapons, plants — even common objects. Everything depends on your lineage… and your luck."
"With that spirit, you begin your path of cultivation. Every ten levels of spiritual power, you may obtain a spirit ring by absorbing the essence of a spirit beast."
He drew a circle with different colors.
"The ring's color indicates the age of the beast. Pay attention:"
Color Beast Age Meaning
White 10–99 years Weak, nearly useless
Yellow 100–999 years Acceptable, common
Purple 1,000–9,999 years True power begins here
Black 10,000–99,999 years Extremely rare and valuable
Red 100,000 years Legendary. And dangerous.
He looked firmly at the boy.
"And remember: the older the ring, the stronger the ability it grants. But also, the harder it is to endure."
Wuchen, attentive, was already taking careful notes.
"Now, the cultivation levels."
He wrote with firm strokes:
> 1–10: Civilian – No spirit, no power.
11–20: Spirit Master – The first ring.
21–30: Grand Spirit Master – Two rings.
31–40: Spirit Elder – Three rings.
41–50: Spirit Ancestor – Four rings.
51–60: Spirit King – Five rings.
61–70: Spirit Emperor – Six rings.
71–80: Spirit Sage – Seven rings.
81–90: Spirit Douluo – Eight rings.
91–99: Titled Douluo – Nine rings. The elite.
100+: God
Wuchen raised his hand.
"Teacher, is it possible to have more than one spirit?"
"Yes. It's called twin martial spirits, and it's as rare as phoenix feathers. Don't think too much about it."
Wuchen noted everything. But what stayed with him most was the master's final words:
"You were not born equal. But everyone has the right to fight for their own strength. And those who endure… are the ones who make history."
---
One night, while cleaning his wounds in the simple room he shared with his father, Wuchen looked down at his hands, marked by calluses and scars.
Qingshan entered silently.
"Are you alright?"
"No."
For the first time in days, the boy admitted it.
"They hate me. They test me constantly. And even when I succeed, no one cares."
Qingshan knelt beside him and gripped his shoulder.
"I know it's hard. But… you're getting stronger, aren't you?"
Wuchen nodded.
"Then keep going. Because every day you endure… is one less day they can ignore you."
---
At the end of the second year, the duke summoned him for a private conversation.
Wuchen entered the meditation hall, where the old man sat in lotus position, eyes closed.
"Sit."
He obeyed.
Silence reigned for long minutes until the duke finally opened his eyes.
"You are not weak."
It was the first time he'd heard those words.
"But you're still soft. You still don't know what it means to carry this name. It's not just honor. It's weight. It's responsibility."
The duke leaned forward and pressed a rigid finger to Wuchen's chest.
"One day, your martial soul will awaken. When it does… you will have two choices: you will either be like your father and abandon your duty, or you will be a true Lei — and carry this name like a spear pointed to the heavens."
Wuchen didn't hesitate.
"I won't run."
The duke looked at him. For a moment — just a moment — his hardened expression seemed to soften.
"We'll see."
---
That night, returning to his room, Wuchen sat by the window and gazed at the stars.
He didn't know when his power would emerge.
But he knew it was coming.
And when it came…
There would be no more doubt.